


With Every Fiber

by luceluceluceluce



Series: Kink Bingo [2]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Angst, F/M, M/M, Worship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-17
Updated: 2013-09-17
Packaged: 2017-12-26 20:41:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/970078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luceluceluceluce/pseuds/luceluceluceluce
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the prompt fill, "Worship".</p><p>To you, everything contains dualities- and for once, he is no exception.</p>
            </blockquote>





	With Every Fiber

**Author's Note:**

> I tried to write porn, I really did.  
> Somehow I ended up with 800 words of pretentious, self indulgent angst.  
> Whoops.

Some days you believe he really is a God.  
You feel it most strongly when you are in public, when he presents himself to his following. When you join the crowd of upturned faces, just another impassioned rebel. One of hundreds. One of thousands.  
You feel it when he spreads his arms, palms upturned to the heavens as if to drink in it’s essence. When his voice booms and flows through you like electricity. When he speaks of uprisings and revolutions, of freedom and of hope. When the belief in his voice is so strong he chokes from it, you choke too, and your entire being seems to have been brought into existence simply to follow him.

Some days you believe that he is broken.  
Sometimes he weeps for hours- for days- entirely inconsolable. The Disciple kneels at his side, kisses his fingers, but still he shakes. The Dolorosa bathes him, embraces him, clutches him as if she could absorb his pain into her own body.  
When they finally retire, exhausted and frustrated, you sit with him. Exhaustion tugs at you, and your chest aches with the desire to fix him. You lie beside him, hold him until your eyes drift shut despite his racking sobs. When you wake, he has quieted.

Some days you wonder if he is lost.  
His speeches never falter. So long as there is a single eye on him, he is perfect in his confidence, unwavering. Even with the Disciple, you never see him stammer- even at his very worst, his belief remains constant.  
Except when the sun beats down high and hot, and you sit with him alone at the mouth of one of many hiding caves. He turns to you.  
“I do not know if we will succeed,” he says, and he is very calm. “And if we succeed, I do not know it will be for the best.”  
“Then why do we fight?” you ask.  
“Because we have no other choice,” is his reply, and you are scared.

Some days you hoard him selfishly.  
The Disciple knows what you two do, sometimes. You haven’t spoken about it, but you think she understands. When he is with her, he is frightfully loving- he holds her delicately, adores her, cherishes her.  
When he is with you, it is different.  
He rips your shirt, he bites into your skin until there is blood on his fangs- yellow blood, cheap and disposable- and you push right back, pinning his wrists, jerking at his hips. It is more of a battle than an embrace, and sometimes you almost wish he would hold you the way he holds her- but then his mouth is on you and your veins are on fire, and you are lucky to have him in any way at all.

Some days you forget he is gone.  
It is on the longest flights. Long after your cable ports have burned fiery scars into your skin, long after the cords that bind you/the ship/you/the ship/ _you_ into a singular entity have grafted permanently to your skin.  
You fly for months and sometimes years and sometimes an eternity, and your mind- what is left of it, what has not been boiled down into numbers and programs and data- drifts back to him. To his eyes, the reddest things you had ever seen, and to his beautiful words. You try and try again to instruct your circuits to burn his sigil into your flesh, but they know better than to harm your body.

Some days you glimpse him.  
Death is vast, and eternal. It is wider than the length of a thousand universes, and silent but for the whispers of dark entities.  
You drift in your bubble, packed with cables and circuit boards and the vast, dark deserts of your old home. You see others, sometimes, and you mostly do not recognize them. Some are trolls and some are not, some are young and some are ancient. But there are familiar faces too- a sharp-eyed young neophyte, a brownblooded rebel with wings on his back. You speak with them, exchange old stories, and share each other’s company for a while- sometimes minutes, sometimes years. But the tide of death moves on, and eventually you are cast away into the darkness.  
Sometimes, when you are focused fully on another task, you think you see him. A flash of red that is too bright, a whisper of voice is too familiar not to be him. But when you tear yourself from where you sit, yanking cables from your arms, he is gone. If you are honest with yourself, you are almost sure you never saw him at all.

Some day, you will find him.


End file.
